


Desperado

by PLUSHH



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/M, Western AU, gang related crime, lots of horrendous things to come js, mention of rape, supernatural themes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-11-28 07:13:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11412891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PLUSHH/pseuds/PLUSHH
Summary: ' a desperate or reckless man.  '“I suppose not. But if I’m honest, jefe, I don’t think I’ve ever been happy.” A pause, and Death is unwavering. “Don’t suppose I deserve to be, either.”





	Desperado

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to all my new friends on Discord who love mcsombra as much as I do!!! Follow me on tumblr for updates and other random shit @ mercyrespls. 
> 
> "/lines written like this are in Spanish./"

Sunrises have always been comforting to Jesse. All pink and yellow, white morning light, anything living below breaking into song. Across the desert the world woke up and began it’s business. But not him, not if he could help it. There was something to be missed, and for a kid who took life fast and hard, he didn’t care to let it slip by. At least he gets to see this last one before he dies. Slow and easy, like all the others, but far more dreamlike. His head feels dizzy like he’s been drinking- probably the blood loss. 

Any peace and quiet is cut sharp by the buzz of flies in his ears. Jesse didn’t have the energy to swat them away, and instead let his hands and arms rest over the still oozing wounds on his chest and thighs. By all means, he should have passed out hours ago. Rife with holes, chilled by the night cold, parched and starved. If the fuckers had any humanity left in them, they would have let him bite it with a shot between the eyes, or at least capped him through the back of the head. _At least you go the way you came_. A rasping breath escapes his lips. _By a gun_. 

Somewhere a mourning dove coos. It’s sound is a sweet welcome, and Jesse closes his eyes. 

He opens them to the face of Death. Jesse couldn’t tell you how he knew it was him- he just knew. He stood in the most pristine white coat any eyes had laid upon, embellished in gold and embroidery, topped off with the wide brim of a sombrero. His face, if he had one, was concealed by an alabaster mask in the shape of a skull. 

For how ridiculous it all seemed, Jesse had no impulse to laugh. Death did not seem silly all done up clean and pretty. He looked, instead, like he had come to conduct business. 

A long silence hung between them before the mortal man rasped a question;

“You waitin’ on somethin’?” A fly landed upon his lashes, prompting a few rapid blinks. Death did not immediately respond but shifted in his stance. Where his arms were crossed the fabric strained. 

“I’ve been chasing you for a long time, vaquero.” Now, Jesse smiles. All this time Death was supposed to be scary, supposed to be cold, gloomy, dark. But he sounds warm. 

“Well, take your time, I ain’t rushin’.”

“As you shouldn’t be.” 

Death descends into a graceful crouch. Like a vulture he peers down at Jesse, but he cannot see any eyes behind the mask. Just two black holes. Voids. 

“Would this be an admiral death for you, Jesse?”

“As in?”

“Would you be dying happy?” 

The knee jerk response is ‘fuck no’. Who would be? He’s been gunned down by his own brothers, betrayed by a man he considered a father, has no money, no legacy, to his name, and no place he could call a home. He ain’t young by any means- thirty seven, actually- but he’s still got life ahead of him. Oh, and his horse is fucking dead. His favorite goddamn horse. Another deep breath is taken in, but it leaves in a bloody cough, and Jesse winces as his body strains against foreign metal between his ribs. 

“I suppose not. But if I’m honest, jefe, I don’t think I’ve ever been happy.” A pause, and Death is unwavering. “Don’t suppose I deserve to be, either.”

“Hm.” Another long silence and the sky grows brighter. Now most of it is crystal blue and clear like freshwater, and three buzzards circle above, waiting patiently for the scene to vacate. “Do you deserve retribution?” 

“You tell me.” 

Death seems to think upon that response. After another few seconds, his head tilts as if he is looking at something else upon the horizon. Jesse couldn’t guess what; the landscape is nothing but shrubs and dust. 

“I’ll make you a deal, vaquero; 

I will give you the tools to take what’s been stolen from you. New flesh, new life, whatever you need, and you can go, kill the man who killed you, find your revenge. And after you are free to live your life to it’s fullest extent. Settle down, find a wife, have kids- or don’t, if you prefer. I think once you aspired to be ‘king of the horde’, aye?” Jesse could only grin, chuckling low in his throat. “All this for you if you give your soul to me when it’s through.”

“You mean go to hell?”

“No- the fields are much too tame for you, Jessito. Instead you’ll be my tool, my weapon, my hand. Take souls for me until there are no more souls to be taken.”

“So forever.” 

“if that’s how long it takes, yes.” 

Upon that Death seemed to let Jesse stew, his eyes drifting up at the sky while he pondered his options. Jesse had always been brash in his decisions, but he didn’t want to take this one at face value. There were countless stories and children’s tales warning humanity against deals with the devil. They all ended in tragedy, as much as he could remember. Sad, worthless, haunting. People lost their souls in these sort of transactions. But what was his soul worth anyways? He’s a criminal, a thief, a murderer, a con. He’d given it all up for people who didn’t deserve it. They took advantage of him, and they lied to him- right to his damn face. And he was stupid enough to believe every single venom laced word they’d said. And then they shot him in the back. They left him in the wilderness to die slowly and rot away to nothing but bones and then nothing but dust. The mourning dove sings again, far away now. He’d known his answer all along. 

“Seein’ as I’m not getting’ any better offers, you have yourself a deal, sir.” And Death seemed to smile. 

“Wonderful.” 

“Just one question-“ Death waits, head tilted. “Why?” It was Death’s term to sigh. It was deep, slow, full of weight and purpose. A clean white glove reached upwards, grasping the mask about the cheeks to pull it down and away. 

“I guess, after all those years chasing you, you grew on me.” 

 

x+x+x+x+x+x+x+x+x+x+x+x+x+x+x

 

Crossing the border has never been more easy. With so many people complaining about where the actual border is, and where American’s start and Mexican’s end, It’s hardly guarded at all. Perhaps there are some Mexicans posted together, somewhere. Maybe they’re defending against an army that won’t ever come. Jesse chuckles at the thought. Away, Americano, away. 

He needn’t worry; the benefit of being born between two worlds is access to both of them. He can speak fluent Spanish, and English without any accent at all. He can pass as white when he keeps the beard at a decent length, but no one would question any native heritage, with how sun-kissed his skin is. Put him in a hat and serape- he might as well be any ol’ vaquero on the border. 

Except he’s not. 

A town rises in the distance, after cresting a large ridge, and Jesse follows a ravine into the valley upon his sure-footed mount. Just behind him the darkening skin, and before him a blazing sun that blinds him, if he doesn’t block it out. 

Once at the edge of the clustered buildings he reads a sign; “Los Ojos.” The eyes. It makes Mcree squint. Strange name, but he can’t judge. It’s a small little place, just a few buildings to it’s name, all of the essentials for a up-sprung desert city. It borders upon a river, and some plant life seems to thrive from the source. But it’s more likely the people here ranch cattle, and nothing grows from the parched land. 

He’s right- there’s a series of fencing around, a barn included into the nest of structures, and in the far off Western horizon he sees brown bodied populating the side of the hills. He brings his mare up to the rancher in the stables and pays to have her safely boarded for the night. He thinks about keeping her outside, in case they need to make a quick getaway, but decides against it. She’s tired, they’re both covered in sweat, and she’ll have more energy when they set out again in the morning. There’s still a long ride ahead of them until the next stop. 

Once she’s settled, Mcree finds himself wandering down the largely empty main road to the nearest rest he can find, which happens to be the inn and bar. 

Inside, it’s crawling with Los Muertos gang. Tattooed faces peer at him from between each other like handing bats, all of them dark-skinned and mean looking, and most of them equipped with guns of varying sizes and utilities. Instantly the skin of his nape crawls. The Los Muertos gang has to be one of, if not the, largest gangs across Mexico and the border. Originating in Mexico City they control drug trade, illegal weapon trade, steal horses and cattle, and trash anything else they don’t use. They lack in coordination and are mostly made up of teens with no morals, but they make up for it all in sheer size and muscle. Besides; who’s more willing to throw themselves at the enemy than a stupid boy? 

Mcree knows he’s fairly outnumbered and keeps his eyes low, shuffling off to his right and around to the far end of the bar. This is no place to find a drinking partner, and definitely not the sort of den he’s going to sleep easy in. He’ll probably just crawl up into the barn and hide out in the loft. After he’s gotten what he wants, of course. 

The eyes watch him until he settles in a barstool, but the music and chatter hadn’t halted, and quickly resumes it’s moderately loud thundering around 

He drinks for a couple of hours, waits for the sun to disappear, and the low lighting to come on. Sure enough, a drunken stupor flows among the crowd. He feels less in the spotlight, and thus more confident as he meets the bartender’s eyes and speaks to him face to face. He’s a charming looking guy, built tall and limber to reach those far up bottles, and dawns a thick mustache that hides his upper lip. 

“/I’m looking for someone./” The bartender nods him to go on. “/I need help finding him, passed through here a few weeks ago. Frank Williams./” A shrug and a mumbled reply that he has no idea who that is. Jesse sighs. “/tall motherfucker, big beard, flat black hat?/” Still no. The brunette rubs a hand against his cheek, fingers rubbing against the glass of his whiskey. “/Scarred all over? Probably had an entourage with him?/” And when he’s told no again, and the bartender moves to step away, Mcree somewhat loses his patience. 

“/You got any balls on you, man?/” The bartender shuffles off. This is stupid. No one is going to point him in Fank’s direction when they’re swarmed by Los Muertos. Not since Deadlock had melted into their fold. Smart fucker. Mcree slams back his last bit of whiskey and waits for it to be refilled, as he knows the tender needs no prompting to do. 

In all the bar, with all the ruckus of these young lives around him, Mcree has yet to spot any women. Typically a place with this would be crawling with pretty whores, making a fortune off themselves and the stupidity of little boys. There were some outside, he knew, but then guessed they were mothers. Not the kind to be caught here in the dead of night. 

He’s shown why, exactly, as a girl emerges from the back of the bar. A kitchen area, Jesse guesses, or maybe living quarters. She is behind the bar in a flash and, speaking swift Spanish to the tender, begins to help dole out drinks to the other patrons. It’s her who comes to Jesse and pours him a new helping of whiskey. 

Up close Jesse can see she is positively gorgeous. Round, warm cheeks, hazel-umber skin, inky black hair, and sharp features on her youthful face. The middle of her brow is nicked from a scar, and her lips are curled in a dramatic cupid’s bow, but what’s most striking is the shorn hair on the side of her head. It looks crudely cut, like someone held it up against a knife, and the rest falls over her opposite shoulder and the side of her neck. It hardly distracts from her beauty, but Mcree has to wonder what could have possibly caused such a thing. Surely she hadn’t tried to cut it herself…?

She is quick to turn away and cater other men. But, as she approaches, they howl at her. Howling in the way any man does at pretty faces in a bar. They scream profanity, they try to pat her, grab her, but she is swifter still. Each time she parts from them her face if more strongly pinched. 

Jesse finishes another spot of whiskey and she is there, prompt, smiling. 

“So you’re the ugly mug giving Juarez trouble.” Her English is soaked in her Hispanic accent, and the flourish of emotion is captivating. Jesse shrugs, sipping once more. 

“If he didn’t like me he should’ve just kicked me out.”

“He seems to think you’ll be a man good on his word, that you’ll pay before running off and getting yourself strung up by the trash he regularly serves.” She’s leaning on her elbow now, the gentle curves of her slender shoulders and collar shown off. If he were a lesser man, he’d be peeking down her cleavage. 

“I do my best.” Jesse flicks at his glass, thinking of switching to tequila next round. 

“He also thinks you could help him.” 

With that Jesse lifts his eyes to hers. They’re smoky and dark, hiding secrets, full of mischief. 

“Help him with what.” 

“Taking out the garbage?”  
“Fuck no.”

“Well, I agree. But he’s made me ask you anyways. Save us, chulo.” He does not respond, only shakes his head. She drops her arm, leaning closer. “Please, please, mister? There will be a big reward, I can promise you.” She bats her lashes. 

“I said no, Chiquita.” He accents the pet name, giving her a sarcastic grin before it drops against the lip of his glass. 

“I suppose, then, you’d need more to be convinced? What if I give you Frank’s exact location? Or, at least, where he’s headed now?” That makes Jesse pause, pursing his lips as he looks at the counter. “Each stop along the way? I’m going to be the only one to help you, you know. No one else here dares to tread against the great, almighty, terrifying-“ He grips her hand, squeezing hard enough to break iron. She only grins. Wicked thing. 

“I scratch your back, you scratch mine?” He holds her gaze for a long moment, his own eyes filled with annoyance, only satisfaction in her own. Across the building someone calls her name- Sophia. “One second, Viejo.” And she slips away. Mcree doesn’t care to risk holding her there against a Los Muertos’ will. 

He doesn’t watch her but no doubt she’s carting drafts, refilling drinks, or selling cigars that Mcree can smell among the stench of sweat. There’s no way he’s going to take out an entire sect of a massive gang just for some pretty bar maid, her boss, and a snippet of intel. That would put such a massive, massive target on his back, not to mention alert Frank and his group just how close Mcree is to catching up with them. He’d taken great care to become as anonymous as possible, especially when the west was peppered with people who knew his face. Or, at least, knew his name. Jesse could wipe out this bar in just two seconds, no issue, no fuss. But it’s not worth it. It’s not. 

A fuss begins with Sophia’s loud, shrill scream of enraged Spanish. Jesse looks over his shoulder to see her face to face with a Los Muertos brute, his face scarred and tattooed into the visage of a skull. Not that imposing, in Mcree’s book. Sophia seems downright scandalized, bristling from every edge and her small fist gripped tight. But the man can only lean back and laugh, so drunk off his ass he can’t see when he’s barking up the wrong tree. Or, he simply doesn’t care. 

“/Come on, mi Corazon, mi luna, mi sol./” He coos at her every sweet term in the book, touching her wrists. She pulls them away instantly. 

“/Don’t touch me, dog!/”

“/Are you still mad at me, Sophia? Won’t you forgive me? I feel horrible-/” He grabs her, this time, and won’t let himself be brushed away. His friends guffaw as Sophia is wrestled into his lap. “/Don’t you miss me at all?/” His hand slips to the bottom of her skirts, lifting it, and Sophia turns to slap him hard across the face.   
“/I hate you, ugly motherfucker. Get the fuck-/” Skullface grips her hair, suddenly, and jerks her head sharply to the side. 

“/You ungrateful little whore. You didn’t learn your lesson, hm?/” He holds her waist, shows off the shaved side of her head. “/Should I cut you bald, then? Like a newborn babe? Would you-/”

A knife appears in Sophia’s hand, wicked sharp. She holds it against his throat point first and has wild rage in her eyes. He freezes, and the other men oo’h and ah. 

“/Let me go, Luis./” tension hangs around the group, despite most of the men taking the exchange as a silly joke. Luis seems to relent at last, and lets Sophia go, allowed to pop to her feet and turn on him. 

And kick him square in the junk with her heel. 

Jesse has to hold in his sudden laugh, hand on his lips and his eyes creasing at the corners. His friends howl uproarious laughter, creaking back on their chairs, spilling drinks, slapping each other. Luis, however, is cringing in his seat and holding his jewels in pain. There weren’t many times when Jesse could see a woman with such fight, or such bravado. It takes quite a soul to hold a knife up at a drunk, armed criminal. 

Finally Luis can come to, and he draws his gun with a growl of outrage. 

“/Shut up- you fucking slut-/” Sophia stares him straight, her knife sill drawn like it was a cannon in her hand. “/I’ll blow your fucking head off-/” He pulls the trigger. The shot is a mile off; it flies past Sophia’s head and into the wall beyond her, shattering bottles. He’d been shaking from the sting of the attack and had one eye closed. But still everyone stops, eyes turned to Luis and Sophia. There is absolute silence. 

But Mcree is losing his mind, finally unable to hold himself together. He bellows into the bartop, eyes cinched shut, and his hand planted on his thigh for support. Luis’ eyes are small and bloodshot and he looks to the man caved in on himself at the bar. “/What are you laughing at, moron?/” He rises, still cupping his junk and everything, marches over to Mcree, shaky gun aimed down his head, and looks like something out of a fever dream. It takes Jesse A good few seconds to collect himself enough to respond. 

“Holy shit.” He wipes an eye. “I ain’t never seen anythin’ that funny in months, hell.” Made his night, honestly. Luis seems to only grow more angry; a vein in his forehead pops out like a worm. 

“/You’re laughing at the wrong man, vaquero. I don’t think you know who I am./”

“/Course I do./” Jesse slips into Spanish easy. His head tilts with the line of his smirk. “/You Luis Valdez, Los Muertos figurehead. Local ringleader, train-jacker, horse-stealer./” At first, Luis seems proud that Mcree has heard of him. But Death’s hand isn’t done yet. “/Raper of women and children. Homewrecker. You upturned- what was it, twenty families in the past couple of years? You just couldn’t help yourself, after that first taste./” Luis suddenly goes pale. His gun shakes harder. 

“Que?”

“/Oh, you know who I’m talking about, boy. That first kid, that first little body? She was so young, a little too young, but you couldn’t resist. You just had to have more, needed more. But oh, they scream. They fight. You didn’t like that, not at all./” Now Luis seems really shook, all but trembling in his boots. Jesse rises up, the man backs away like he was burned. “/So now you just kill ‘em, take what you want. Haven’t slept still ever since that first night-/”

“/Shut up!/” Luis is terrified. It shows in the shrill tone of his once smooth voice. He looks like he’s being shaken by an earthquake, like he’s being rang like a bell. Jesse can’t help but snort softly. 

“/Can’t hear the truth that haunts you, Luis? You’re a killer. Cold blooded cradle-stealing sick man-/” Another shot breaks the eerie silence among the bar, and Luis falls to the ground, his head blown apart. In Mcree’s hand peacekeeper, smoking at her muzzle, and five left in the chamber. 

“And a horrible shot.” 

Blood has splattered across the bar floor, head bits scattered, flesh torn and the faces of Luis’ friends are marked in red. Everyone stands in shock, including Sophia, who has finally dragged her awestruck eyes from the corpse to Jesse. 

“/Now, gentlemen-/” A hundred Los Muertos eyes turn to Jesse. Ah, shit. Shit, shit, shit. Juarez disappears under the bar abruptly. Spanish prayers are heard whispering from his hiding spot. “/I really don’t want to have to make a mess here for this fine man to have to clean up- not any more than there is now anyways-/“ Many, many men pull their guns. Sophia follows her boss’ movements. “/So maybe, uh, we can just say he deserved it? No?/” Every gun gets cocked. Jesse sighs. 

“Fuck me.”

Just like that the bar erupts into gunshots. Mcree rolls to his left, ducking behind a thick wall. Screams accompany the noise- probably collateral damage. Jesse groans in annoyance, but from this spot he can see Sophia, who is loading rounds into a shotgun while Juarez clutches a rosary to his lips. 

“Great move, hot shot!” She screams, and points the gun down the bar to take two shots. More screams, and more blood splatters. Jesse huffs. “I hope you have a plan!”  
“You know where Frank is going?”

“What-?” A body falls between them. Los Muertos men are turning on each other, surely, and more bullets whizz against the wood, splintering it all around. “Yes, yes!”

“You ain’t lyin?”

“No I’m not fucking lying!”

“And you’ll keep your word?”

“Help me you bastard!”

Mcree rolls his eyes. Fine, fine. He peers up the stairs, and more gang members are stumbling down, rifles in hand. Jesse cocks his gun, aims upwards at them, and takes one shot. In that moment five men fall over the railing, heads once more blossomed into gory shows of brain and blood and skin. They thunk down and shock his oppressors, who look anywhere to find other gunmen. 

Sophia is taking more shots and doesn’t seem to notice. As she reloads, Mcree stands straight up from his position and draws. The air is filled to the brim with the cacophony of yelling, Spanish, gunfire, breaking glass and wood, even crying horses outside. It ends with one overpowering gunshot. The last one of the night- the tip of peacekeeper is flared iron red. 

Fifteen or so bodies suddenly drop where they stand. No more yelling, no more rounds going off, no more noise. Just Jesse Mcree. And Sophia, of course, propped over the bar with her jaw to the floor and her eyes looking like they were ripped wide open. 

Jesse steps over the nearby bodies quickly and grips her arm. Those firelight eyes peer up at him. 

“Where’s Frank Williams.”


End file.
